Raphael took three more swigs.
Finally, he lifted his head, as if he’d noticed Isabelle’s presence for the first time since her entry. “Ah. Good. Leave us. Now. And do not disturb us for any reason.” His voice sounded slurred, confirming Isabelle’s suspicion about his drunken stupor.
The footman departed from the withdrawing room. Isabelle grew tense. Uneasy. And just a little panicked.
Coming here was a foolish mistake.
They no longer stood on equal ground. Not in Raphael’s chateau; not in the Dumonts’ domain. Isabelle’s thoughts traveled to the safe cocoon that was her humble cottage. Anxiously smoothing her hands over her cloak, she eyed the hulking furniture and glittering finery—seeing nothing but obstacles and barricades to her freedom.
Raphael chuckled, apparently amused by her discomfort and vulnerability. Am I that easy to read? She glanced at him and resisted the urge to flee. They were all alone now. And Raphael looked more than a bit tipsy.
“Raphael, I—”
Remaining seated on the chaise, he drawled, “Sit. Don’t be shy. We are to be married, after all.”
So you think.
“I need a favor.” The words left a bitter taste in her mouth. She felt Raphael’s dark eyes sliding across her skin as if he were physically touching her.
He leaned back, reclining on the chaise like a spoiled feline, then took another drag of alcohol.
“Interesting, though not so unexpected. Pray tell, what’s the nature of this favor?” His tone sounded sardonic and ice-cold as he visibly fought the brandy’s haze. A certain bitterness laced those words together, which further garbled their meaning.
“My father and I... we’re traveling. This weekend. It’s the annual Merchants’ Fair—”
“Wait, wait. Let me guess. You want a horse and means for traveling.”
Two more hearty swigs.
“Yes. A simple brougham will do, and I shan’t need a driver. It’ll take three days. Two if we’re lucky and can leave at first light.”
“And you require funds.”
Another liberal swig.
Isabelle tightened the cloak about her body and raised her chin several centimeters. She refused for those unfeeling eyes to intimidate her. And she refused to play the part of a victim. Steeling her nerves, she met his gaze and smoothed down the front of her cloak with shaking hands. Quit trembling, you foolish girl. She gripped the fabric to better hide her rattled nerves. “Yes. For food and shelter... and if we happen across an inn.”
“And what’s in this for me? Hmm? How do I benefit?” Silence hung between them, thick and palpable. Only the crackling fireplace breached the quiet. Raphael glanced into the flames, his cold, regal features set aglow. Then his gaze landed on the comte’s portrait again. He tensed. His manicured fingernails burrowed into the fabric of his chaise, snagging the fine upholstery. “Ah. That’s what I suspected. No matter—we shall make do.”
Raphael signaled her forward in a slick come-hither motion. Examining her from head to toe, his eyes crawled down her body as she moved with baby steps. He crossed his strong arms over his chest and captured her gaze. From the corner of her eye, she surveyed the grand pianoforte, searching for a barricade, for some form of shelter—knowing well the game Raphael played.
“Your cloak. Remove it.”
Another suffocating silence infected the air. “No.”
“No? Now.” When Isabelle remained quiet and took a step back, he slammed his fist onto the nearby end table. “I said now!”
The jarring crack of knuckles on wood made Isabelle’s heart somersault. The movement caused his brandy to spill over the glass, drenching the table’s polished surface. Her stomach turning, she mutely watched as the alcohol dripped off the end table and stained the regal Persian rug. Raphael paid it no measure. He merely kept his glower fixed on her with an unwavering intensity.
Maintaining her pride wasn’t worth it. There was no telling what a drunken Raphael was capable of.
Her fingers trembled as they worked the cloak’s clasp. So rattled were her nerves, it took a full minute to complete the dreadful task. All the while, Raphael watched in stony silence, his eyes fixed on her every breath, his ringed fingers drumming against the wet end table. A king’s ransom of rubies and amethysts glittered in the fire’s blaze.
“Good girl. Now, set it aside.” She hesitated. “That was not a request.”
Isabelle folded her cloak, placing it atop the grand pianoforte. She smoothed down the material of her dress and held his steel gaze. The material was torn and embarrassingly faded. Regardless, she squared both shoulders and took a measured step forward.
“What is this?” he asked, gesturing to her attire with a sloppy wave.
“I... I don’t understand?”
“I sent gowns. Demrov and Paris’s finest. Yet you stand before me looking like a fucking scullery maid. Well? What’s your excuse?”
Isabelle felt as her eyes burned into Raphael’s. “You know well. My father’s medical care is expensive. I can hardly—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Raphael violently chucked his brandy into the hearth. “Your excuses bore me.” The fire exploded, fueled by the alcohol and his escalating anger. He shot onto his feet and paced over to Isabelle in a few decisive strides. She instinctively stepped away from him, though her burning glare refused to waver. “Indeed. Your excuses bore me nearly as much as your coldness.” Isabelle sensed his composure unraveling. His hands began to shake, and his genteel facade was quickly slipping away.
“We have an agreement. One I fully intend to hold you to. Look at you, prancing about in peasant’s garb, disgracing my family’s name.”
You disgrace your family’s name every day, just by breathing the air. A profound loathing, unlike anything she’d ever experienced before, sparked an inferno inside her soul. The one thing that kept Isabelle’s tongue in check was the thought of Papa and the Merchants’ Fair. A promise of a new start.
And an opportunity for our freedom.
Raphael stormed closer still; she moved away, feeling trapped. Hunted. He tugged on the tattered fabric of her dress like a master might summon his hound. “Pitiful. I could have anyone. Anyone.” Her bottom bumped into the grand pianoforte—and she found herself caged between Raphael and the wretched instrument.
“Then take someone else and be done with it.” She fought to sound strong and capable, though a small quaver betrayed her. Something crossed his eyes—possibly affection—and the gentle emotion looked alarmingly out of place on his stern expression.
Body heat radiated as he towered over her body, staring down. Then he grabbed her shoulder blades and seized her in an iron grip. His fingers pinched her skin, caused a fission of pain to shoot through her limbs. “Except I don’t want someone else. I want you.”
“You are hurting me. Let go.” He said nothing. His nails dug through the fabric and embedded in her flesh. “I still don’t understand. Why? Why me?” Her voice sounded firm, angry. She felt all that and more.
Raphael shook his head in contemplation. His fingers slid away. When he spoke, at last, the words were soft and barely audible, as if he was addressing a distant memory. “My late mother... you resemble her. Your hair,” he said, raking his fingers through her tumbling curls. “Your eyes, your spirit...” His voice trailed off, and Isabelle gasped for air as he pulled her flush against his body.
“Don’t... don’t touch me. Get your filthy hands off me, Raphael.”
“I am lifting you from a life of poverty and denigration—you ought to show some gratitude, ungrateful putain. I am prepared to give you everything your heart could ever desire. The finest gowns and jeweled necklaces, more carriages than you’d ever have a use for. Even power.” Isabelle doubted he could hear the irony of his own words. “Isabelle... let me make you worthy,” he said, gesturing to the room, “of all this.” Hot breaths wafted against her cheeks. Then he reached out and traced the curve of her chin with a hooked index fi
nger. “Beautiful. Tempting. Beautifully tempting...”
“You are drunk.”
He merely chuckled. The sound echoed despairingly in the ornate withdrawing room, morphing the space into something ugly.
A jail cell.
He outstretched both arms and planted his palms on the pianoforte, imprisoning her between his limbs. The keys shuddered at the movement and quietly reverberated in the large room. The pungent stench of the brandy fanned against her cheeks in a repulsive assault on the senses. Glaring down, he pinned her to the instrument with every fraction of his body weight. She attempted to shove him away while he vulgarly ground against her.
His body came alive—the jut of his arousal painful against her belly.
“Get off me.” Nothing. “I shall scream. I swear it. I shall—”
“I call your bluff.” His hands slid down and over the sides of her body. Goose bumps rose on her skin, and a nauseous feeling coiled inside her gut. Whatever affection she once held for Raphael mutated into a blinding hatred. “And the only thing you shall scream is my name... as I take you again and again and again...”
“You wouldn’t do it. You—you have far too much pride.”
It was the wrong thing to say. His eyes sparked to life at the challenge, and his unwanted caresses grew more invasive, horribly intimate. Isabelle felt as though her heart slammed against her ribs, threatening to shatter through flesh and bone.
“Funny you mention such a thing. My father has much pride... In fact, he believes he’s God’s fucking gift to society. Indeed. He has much pride, to be certain, yet he used to... impose himself on my mother quite often. Why, if it wasn’t for his forceful hands, I might not be standing before you today...” Cold, long fingers curled under Isabelle’s chin and lifted her face. Raphael locked on to her stare as that queer, soft emotion surfaced on his face once more. “Does that make you sad, ma chérie? Does that melt your fragile little heart? Shall you weep for me?”
A stab of pity impaled her; then she met his icy stare again, and any empathy she felt vanished as quickly as it’d come. A rough chuckle resonated from his chest. The harsh vibrations circulated through her body as he firmly pressed against her. “Non. You’d best not answer that. What was I saying? Oh, yes—my father is full of pride. And rather quick with his hands and tongue.” A chilling smile curled his lips.
Isabelle exhaled a relieved breath as he stepped away and turned toward the painting of his father. “Allow me to share a little story with you. My mother was an exquisite beauty, much like yourself. Needless to say, she made a stunning bride. I used to stare at her wedding portrait for hours, completely transfixed. She looked like an angel...” Raphael spun toward her again and reached her position in one clumsy stride. “Much like you, in fact. Long chestnut curls, eyes that could drive a man to madness, a spirit that could rival even the most rebellious souls. She only met my father one time before the wedding. Young, shy... She wasn’t too keen about consummating the marriage. Regardless, Father took what he wanted. What was rightfully his. That night, he held her in place, much like this,” Raphael whispered, simultaneously reaching for her wrists and holding them captive. “Indeed. He told me all about it the night she died. He laughed as I wept over her dead body, which was still quite warm.”
“Let go of me.” Isabelle fought his iron grasp as his nails dug into her wrists. “Now!”
She kneed him in the groin. Hard. With all her power. He flinched and emitted a pained grunt, then shook his head and stepped back with a low chuckle. After a moment of collecting himself, he said, “The more she fought, the more he liked it. The more she tried to break free, the more he restrained her. It was a sweet little game they played.” He smiled a most wicked smile, leaned close again, and breathed the taunt against her neck while she struggled. His nails dug deeper, drawing blood that curled around her suspended wrists. “Tsk-tsk, you disappoint me, mademoiselle. I took you for a faster learner.”
He enjoyed the pain—both receiving and giving it.
Isabelle felt queasy, trapped, sick to her stomach. Sure, Raphael had made his idle threats before... yet something warned her he’d push further tonight. Never had she seen him so deep in his cups—nor had she ever witnessed this strangely... emotional side. But she would not fight him; it only intensified his cruelty and kindled his fire. And she refused to fall further into his trap, to become his plaything.
Be brave. Be strong.
Air gushed from her lungs as he unclasped the topmost buttons of her dress. He parted the fabric with fumbling hands and muttered a slurred sentiment. Nestled against Isabelle’s chest, the silver cross sparked to life and gleamed in the moonlight.
Maman... grant me strength. Help me find courage.
One of his cold, smooth hands slithered over her shoulder and skated beneath the material of her dress and chemise. For once in her life, she yearned for a corset and petticoats—anything to help keep Raphael out. He cupped her breast in his palm and mercilessly kneaded the flesh. Tears she refused to shed stung the back of her eyes. His thumb and forefinger pinched her bare nipple, twisting the tender skin, causing a jolt of pain to blast down her spine. Then he wedged his thigh between her legs and forced them apart with a coarse, drunken movement. A heartbeat later, he stood between her spread thighs.
Bile rose in her throat, hot and churning; she felt the wretched object of his desire swell and jerk against her. His hand slid out from her bodice and swept down her side. The opposite hand hiked up her skirts, leaving her completely vulnerable and exposed.
She couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop her reaction, couldn’t subdue her panicked breaths. Surely she would faint from the lack of oxygen. Indeed, her lungs battled for air as her own breathing betrayed her and quickened.
She peered down at her silver cross and whispered another silent prayer.
She tried to harness the tears, to detach herself from the reality of what was happening, but then he opened the slit in her pantalettes and touched her there. She shattered. Tears flowed down her cheeks, the bile rose in her throat, and the beat of her heart thundered in her ears. It drowned out her thoughts—muffled everything but the painful feel of his hooked finger inside her, the stench of his alcohol-laden breaths, the sound of his mocking voice in her ear...
“Wh-what are you trying to prove?” she managed to choke out. Her voice sounded distant and weary; she didn’t recognize it as her own.
“That you are mine. And you belong to me.”
“Never.”
Isabelle felt like she was on the verge of fainting. Her body grew limp, her mind drew blank, disjointed, and all she perceived was the intrusive twisting of his finger and the musky scent of his breaths. His other hand moved back to her breast and squeezed the tender skin. Two more fingers invaded her, hooking deep inside her flesh. Then he retracted from her body, and his nails dragged across her thighs. Alas, there would be scars; they’d be branded on her heart if not her skin. She shook against the pianoforte with stunned disbelief and agony. Sharp, blistering pain shot through every centimeter of her body and constricted her pleas. He inserted three fingers this time; her dry inner walls strained and clenched, fighting to keep him out.
“You won’t do this. You cannot.”
Raphael withdrew his fingers—which were coated in her blood—and seized her gaze with his own. Isabelle felt some of her spirit returning, and a fire blazed inside her soul.
“Did you say something?”
“I said you cannot follow through with this vile act,” she answered through a reed-thin voice. “I call your bluff. And this time, I know I’m right.”
He chuckled low. The haunting sound made her skin crawl and heart burn. “And how are you so certain?” He petted her face—a gesture that was at odds with his actions a moment ago—and streaked her cheek with warm blood. Her blood. Isabelle straightened her back and returned his stare with an unblinking, daring intensity.
That blood resembled war paint.
“I ask
you again, ma chérie: How are you so certain, so very sure of yourself?”
“Because you could never face the mirror again without seeing your father.” The words felt painful, though she pushed them out to prevent him from going any further. Yet, in her eyes and heart, Raphael had already raped and ruined her all the same.
He freed her from his clutches, and Isabelle gasped for air, clasping her pulsating throat. It was as if she’d been held under water and could finally draw breaths again.
“You play with fire.” Raphael paced back and forth for several moments, running shaking hands through his disheveled hair. Sweat shone on his temples and tracked down the sides of his face. “Play with fire, and you get burned.”
He is mad.
Isabelle pushed away from the pianoforte and crossed the room. Space. She needed room to breathe. Staring down at her discarded cloak, she hugged her body and willed herself to quit trembling. She swiped at her cheek, and then gazed at the blood on her shaky fingers.
A flurry of emotions overwhelmed her. Anger. Revulsion. Pain. Disgust with her own stupidity.
And a blinding fury.
She and Papa would leave at first light and never return. That thought—the irony that Raphael himself was handing her the tools for escape—saved Isabelle from breaking down completely.
“You are a monster, Raphael. A despicable waste of breath.” Those were all the words she could manage. The venom in her voice shocked even herself.
She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know when; somehow, someway, she’d make Raphael pay for his unthinkable cruelty.
“Look at you. You think you’re so pure, so untouchable. The perfect little martyr,” he snapped. “You think just because I wasn’t born in a fucking prison cell or in the back of a tavern that I haven’t known suffering? I guarantee you, mademoiselle, that you would be dead thrice over if you’d received half my beatings.”
The disgust in his eyes was evident—but another emotion was also there. One Isabelle couldn’t fully place. One that made him even more dangerous.
Then he harshly wheeled away, cursed beneath a ragged breath, and refused to meet her gaze again. “Fine,” he continued, visibly trying to gather his shattered composure. He paced the length of the drawing room, once, twice, three times—like a manic, caged beast. “Take a brougham, a horse, funds, whatever the hell you require. Be pacified for the time being.” He stopped, then looked her up and down, the desire heavy in his stare, his fingers balled into two unyielding fists. He wanted to beat her; she saw it in his glare, in the merciless clenching of his long, bejeweled fingers, which were coated with her blood. “But we marry upon your return.”
Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1) Page 5